


Before I Die Alone – Let Me Have Vengeance

by choraki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Torture, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Medical Torture, Mourning, Torture, emotional breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4954249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choraki/pseuds/choraki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What causes a man's healthy mind to snap?</p><p>What causes a human being to mutate to a monster?</p><p>What makes a <em>madman</em>...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before I Die Alone – Let Me Have Vengeance

**Author's Note:**

> I've got the idea for this one-shot when I listened to Zack Hamsey's "Vengeance", and well...  
> As already mentioned in the tags and the archive warnings, explicit description of violence, an emotional breakdown, and definitely not a happy end.

_Before I die alone – let me have vengeance..._

What causes a man's healthy mind to snap?

What causes a human being to mutate to a monster?

What makes a _madman_...?

There are many theories regarding this topic. Common explanations are a recent great loss, mental illnesses, a lack of empathy.

Whatever the reason was, John Hamish Watson isn't exactly the typical _madman_. 

He is a man, who lost everything. His work. His flat. His wife. His life.

_His best friend._

Who would have guessed, that a simple suicide would manage to dig out the darkest desires and thoughts? Who would have believed, that a kind-hearted, loving doctor, who risked his life to protect the ones he loved on a daily base, would eventually be the _monster_?

* * *

The coppery smell of crimson filled the air, a wine-red colour painting his hands and arms, the light reflecting off it creating an almost eerie image. His fingers were trembling, muscles twitching in his steady grip, struggling to keep the scalpel upright. 

How had it come to this?

Unimportant.

The sharp blade cut through the skin like butter, effectively tearing it apart with minimal resistance. Another load of blood spilled over, soaking more of the victim's already ruined suit. 

No screams.

No fighting.

Nothing but a manic cackling, wide-eyed laughs, madness in it's pure form. 

How was that possible? Why didn't he break? Why didn't he feel fucking _pain_?!

John's breath resided to nothing but a troubled panting, wheezing even, vision blurring. Eyes burning with those salty tears threatening to spill over. And, eventually, they did. Welled up, toppled over, ran down his bloodied cheeks. Washing away the red in little rivulets, mixing up with the deadly paint, and finally dropping down into the void. He grit his teeth, a sharp breath being sucked in through his clenched teeth.

Why didn't he react?

“Beg for bloody mercy!”

Another volley of loud laughing was fired at him, like a mad hyena.

 _He doesn't back down_ , the blond thought, _why doesn't he cry_?!

The doctor's hand jerked forward, the tip of the dangerous tool easily piercing the criminal's skin, ramming through flesh, veins, and tendons, and finally embedding itself into the tender joint of the bastard's shoulder.

Again, he chuckled, seemingly completely unaware of the damage done to his body.

_Now, who had gone mad, after all? The devil or the angel?_

More tears streamed down Watson's face, rolled over his dirtied skin, an uncontrollable sob passing his throat. Another violent shiver seared through his form, caused him to hunch over to just a second. But he didn't give up. Didn't succumb to the sorrow, not after everything he had been through to reach this very moment. To trap the mastermind, to have him tied down securely just like this. 

Almost automatically, like the joint of a robot, his dominant hand reached behind himself. Easily, effortlessly, he wrapped his trembling fingers around another metal handle, picking up the next scalpel – leaving the previous one sticking in his victim's shoulder.

“Why don't you cry? Why don't you bloody _cry_?!” John was yelling by now, right into the other's face, uncaring of anything. He couldn't take this anymore, didn't want to take it anymore. 

His hand jerked downwards, violently, as he pushed the sharp blade into the man's flesh. And he ripped it towards himself, through fabric, skin, muscles, veins; anything he could reach. Anger mixed into his actions. Previously oh-so calculated and careful, he was now losing it. Slowly, but definitely. It crawled up his inner walls like a disease; the madness. Took over more and more of his mind, his being, his figure. Caused his movements to lose more and more control.

The hyena laughed out loud once more.

Was it his victim? Was it in his own mind? Hell, he couldn't tell anymore... 

“Why are you still alive?!”

John's hand slipped a little, the blood dropping from his hand in thick, disgusting drops. But he kept the knife, yanked it out of the limb, but only to hammer it down once more. 

“Why the fucking hell are you still alive?!”

Was it a rhetoric question?

No.

“Why is _he_ dead and you _aren't_?!”

The motion of stabbing down on his leg repeated. Again. And again. And again...

He felt the cool metal of another object in his hand, unaware to have left the other one in his enemy's leg.

“Tell me!”

This time, the tip of the scalpel pointed forward as he tore the air apart with the sheer force of his throw. The tool quickly dug into the body before him once more, successfully burying deep down into his rip cage. Bones were no match against this brutal force, and a small, rational part in the very back of John's mind could clearly tell, that he had just broken at least one rip with that stab. Aside from the clear puncturing of the other's lungs.

Another bright, maniac's laugh, pure insanity radiating off of him, followed by a gurgled grunt.  
Blood was quickly hindering his respiratory; but not enough to kill him just yet.

“You don't deserve life! You don't deserve anything! Fucking beg for it, you piece of–“

His sentence paused abruptly, simply unable to finish it. 

Insults? What were insults? What were good insults? 

He didn't know anymore...

“Y-you– you didn't help him– Johnny-boy...”

It felt like an electrical shock burning through his veins, liquid fire melting his inner being. John's blue eyes widened, shock, betrayal, guilt. Everything was mirrored in them, like windows to the soul, sorrow's claws now grasping tightly at his throat.

There was no air to be breathed in, just cold fire, filling his lungs like a drowning man without any hope for rescue.

His smeary wet fists trembled, utter wrath quickly assisting the sorrow. Like two cackling demons, sitting on each of Watson's shoulders, uttering a sweet melody of vengeance. 

The first punch was instinctively, uncontrollable, without any thought to it.

The second one acted out exactly what those two demons – ghosts – wanted.

The third one brought the first piece of satisfaction.

Another one.

And another one.

He still heard him cackling, taunting him, mocking him; causing more guilt and rage, more fuel for his punches.

The crimson life source was now dripping wet from his face, down onto the floor, dirtying John's whole figure.

More and more punches. Blind anger. An almost calming numbness fogging around his mind.

His knees hit the wet ground, arms being pulled behind his back. When had he stopped beating?

“Captain John Hamish Watson,”

He knew that voice. Knew it all too well. It occurred in his dreams, in his daily life, he read rare text messages in this voice. He had heard that voice for years on end, every single time whenever Sherl– 

“I am... sorry to announce this. I hoped it would not end like this. It turns out, I have been underestimating your mourning state.”

An also familiar 'CLICK' sounded from behind him, freezing metal restricting the movement of his hands. No. No, this wasn't right. He couldn't stop just yet...!

“You are arrested for endangering the national security, interfering with Governmental authorities,”

The voice paused. Why did he pause? Finally, the blond looked up, tears still fleeing down his face. But his vision was clear. Clear enough to make out a familiar shape, next to a bloodied, completely mutilated pile of flesh.

“and the murder on James Moriarty...”

Mycroft tapped the ground with the tip of his umbrella, and as his gaze swept from the kneeling doctor over to the dead body of the once most dangerous man of whole England, it seemed that a certain kind of sadness had crept into his gaze; vanishing as quickly as it had come...


End file.
